


Even if it ain't all it seems (I've got a pocketful of dreams)

by EmmaCarstairs



Category: The Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Christmas, EVERYBODY'S ALIVE YAAAY, Everybody Lives, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Human AU, I could've put more heline smh, I tried to fit in the Lightwood fam but I ran out of time, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, come for the blackstairs stay for my lack of writing talent, concrete jungle where dreams are made of therE'S NOTHING YOU CAN'T DO, i couldn't keep myself from the Ham refs sorry not sorry, so I might edit this later, there's a bit of malec if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaCarstairs/pseuds/EmmaCarstairs
Summary: Emma mumbled. Her mom leaned in to brush a kiss on her head, picked her bags up again and left the pair alone by the tree. Emma turned to Jules, huffing. “Don’t get me wrong; you know I love your siblings. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t stand one of them at home. Let alone a baby.” “Babies aren’t that bad. Tavvy was the cutest-” “Tavvy cried. A lot,” Emma cut in. “As did Dru, and the twins. Even you were probably a pain in the-” “Sorry, Daughter of the Year,” Julian mumbled sheepishly although he had raised an eyebrow. He turned completely in time to throw a cushion at her. “Wanna ask Mark and Helen for their input on how you screamed your head off as a baby?”________The LA squad spends their Christmas in New York.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my dearest Elke's birthday! Not the fic she specifically requested, but I'm working on that one as well so YAY more blackstairs coming soon.
> 
> I apologize beforehand for all typos and mistakes: this didn't go through a beta reader because I suck butt and never do things early enough.

 

  
  


Octavian Blackthorn bawled at the first snowball thrown at him.

 

“For the love of God, Livvy-” began to reprimand one of their older siblings, Julian. But the girl (“ _The culprit!_ ”) had already scampered away, giggling and tugging onto her twin brother’s sleeve, and Julian had no other choice than to gather the sobbing 8-year-old into his arms.

 

He sighed heavily. Right by him, his best friend was clicking her tongue in reprimand. “Such rebels you’ve got. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow you woke up with a couple grey hairs”.

 

“Hush it”, he spat with no real heat behind it. Emma shrugged, and less than a minute later Octavian was off after his remaining siblings, snow and tears long forgotten. Julian knew that their peace wouldn’t last, but was determined to make the most out of it for as long as he could. He turned back to her with his brow furrowed. “Where’s Dad anyway?”

 

“Last I saw him he had gone…” Emma glanced around, making sure the youngest were out of earshot, and lowered her voice, “shopping, with my parents. _Christmas_ shopping _._ But,” she paused and reached for her phone, “that was over two hours ago. They should be back by now.”

 

Julian nodded absentmindedly. They hadn’t been in New York for a whole day yet and things were already moving to the pace they were used to back in the West Coast, including absent adults and older siblings as well. Not that he minded watching after the kids, but it got tiring after some time. He had no doubt that his older sister Helen and her wife were both inside with the hosts, the Lightwood family and distant cousins of theirs, but the second oldest, Mark, was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Neither were his partners. Emma must have sensed the direction of his thoughts, or just seen the horrified look on his face upon putting two-and-two together (three, really) because she threw her head back and laughed wholeheartedly.

 

A drifting snowflake landed on the tip of her nose.

 

Julian watched, captivated, but she straightened before he could thumb it away; hands rapidly circling his arm, she turned to lead him back into the house through the backdoor, already chatting about her _other_ best friend’s endeavors with his brother and their boyfriend, mostly just to terrorize him.

 

He wasn’t really listening. Suddenly her warmth was enthralling him completely, as was her new chocolate-y smell and the way a few of her golden locks of hair managed to shine despite the total lack of sunlight. She was still laughing, pearly white peeking from between pale lips. In the freezing weather only her cheeks stayed rosy.

 

Emma laughed even harder when he crashed into the partially closed door, too distracted to get out of the way in time.

 

* * *

 

It was eating Emma from the inside to be near Jules and not hold him. Or kiss him. Or-

 

“-just, _ugh_ !” She grunted. “Something! Tina, I can’t take it anymore. He even _changed his cologne_.”

 

“You’re just hanging onto every little thing he does so you can use them as an excuse for the lust you’re feeling toward him,” Cristina insisted while Emma screamed into her pillow for the umpteenth time. “It’s quite common, really.”

 

The blonde sat up on the bed, huffing. The disrupted mane of hair along with burning cheeks made for a sight the other girl found hard not to laugh at. “It’s not _lust_. And it’s not funny! Not all of us get two boyfriends almost handed by the heavens.”

 

“Okay, no. First of all, Kieran’s not my boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend’s boyfriend. Second, you know this thing was never easy,” Cristina reminded her, waving an accusatory finger. “And third, you did date Cameron and that other Jewish guy pretty much at the same time, so…” she trailed off as she balanced her hands at her sides, palms up as a pair of scales.

 

Emma waved her off. “Not relevant here. Neither were my best friend and _they_ came to _me_. I’ve been dropping hints to Jules all winter and nothing!”

 

“Em, it’s the 12th. Winter hasn’t started yet.”

  
  
“It feels like it’s been winter my whole life,” she wailed, voice once again muffled by a pillow.

 

* * *

 

“How would you feel if Santa were to get you a baby brother or sister for Christmas next year?” John Carstairs asked his only daughter as he made a stop during the piggyback ride he was giving to Tavvy. It wasn’t completely out of the blue, considering the usual discussions about the topic with his wife and the cheery beam on his face.

 

However, Emma snorted. “Thanks, no. Tell him I’ve been very naughty.”

 

“But you haven’t been naughty next year yet?” Tavvy asked, utterly confused, just as Julian walked into the living room to add “Emma’s always naughty” flanked by Cordelia Carstairs’ “told you our baby’s on my side!”

 

“She’s not a baby anymore,” John pouted before scurrying away with the kid on his back. Cordelia rolled her eyes, smiling ruefully as she watched her husband go.

 

“So John still wants a kid, huh?” Julian asked, taking a seat next to her daughter on the sofa and tousling the blond tresses. Emma swatted his hand away, glaring.

 

“He’s not backing off, my dear,” she confirmed as she put a few bags down to tame her child’s hair lovingly. “It’s like he doesn’t remember Emma barely made it.”

 

“Is it definite, though?” The aforementioned tilted her head up. “I’m not saying I want a sibling but couldn’t you have another baby if you wanted to? Or they took all that… _that_ ,” she moved her hand about in generalization, albeit wincing, “out when I was born?”

 

Cordelia chuckled at the mortified expression on Julian’s face and pinched his cheek before replying. “Everything’s intact, love. But it was a difficult birth I don’t want to risk it again.”

 

“‘Kay then,” Emma mumbled. Her mom leaned in to brush a kiss on her head, picked her bags up again and left the pair alone by the tree. Emma turned to Jules, huffing. “Don’t get me wrong; you know I love your siblings. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t stand one of them at home. Let alone a baby.”

 

“Babies aren’t that bad. Tavvy was the cutest-”

 

“Tavvy cried. A lot,” Emma cut in. “As did Dru, and the twins. Even you were probably a pain in the-”

 

“Sorry, Daughter of the Year,” Julian mumbled sheepishly although he had raised an eyebrow. He turned completely in time to throw a cushion at her. “Wanna ask Mark and Helen for their input on how you screamed your head off as a baby?”

 

She shrieked. Half a second later she was throwing all nearby cushions at him in rapid succession, tripping as she stood up, laughing. “But I was a cute screaming baby for sure!”

 

“Cute? Emma, you were _bald_ ,” he retorted in hystericals. She was already barging at him again, and he hid behind the sofa in time to duck and evade a rather big plushie that probably belonged either of Alec Lightwood’s children. “And you had that awful high pitched voice later growing up, when you learnt to speak-”

 

“I’m gonna get you for that, Blackthorn!”

 

He sensed her coming more than he saw her, knew her techniques like the back of his hand; he ran from her right when she reached out for him, circled the pieces of furniture scattered as she made her way around them. Jumped and evaded and knelt. They had been doing it their whole lives, as children playing, as teenagers learning different martial arts together at their local gym, training still as young adults. It came as easy as breathing, a true second nature.  
Ultimately laughter won over strategy, and he had stopped to coax in a good breath of air when she tackled him to the ground--careful not to hurt him seriously, serious enough to not care if he banged his elbow or something minor like that. They toppled over and rolled, him cursing, Emma flexing her arms in victory from her newfound straddling position.

 

And Julian was gaping helplessly from underneath her. Soon she had his hands pinned to the floor above his head (possibly fearing an escape attempt from him, not yet refraining from her winner’s speech about kicking his butt once again) but he remained slack. That, she did notice, and whilst tilting her head curiously she straightened in place. “Are you okay?”

 

“Huh,” was all he said.

 

* * *

 

The better part of the following ten days was spent running errands and decorating the Lightwood’s house, a hard enough feat with a constant stream of kids running around and messing with everything they deemed shiny or colorful, or merely interesting. At the very least Octavian was able to play with children near his age, even if it left Drusilla a bit lost amidst the elder teenagers.

 

Julian was alright with that. Aside from a small incident involving Ty’s _friend_ Kit daring both him and his twin Livvy to drink spiked eggnog, nothing of worrying relevance happened. Their dad had taken care of that pretty soon in an expert fashion and, now free, was eating Julian’s head off by the upper floor’s balcony. As nice as it was to look down on everybody playing with snow in the backyard, Andrew took all the fun out of it. His son groaned inwardly.

 

“I’m just saying,” he insisted, “it won’t do you bad to find a girl around here. Didn’t you want to go to Columbia next year? It’ll help if you’ve got a special someone over-”

 

“Maybe I like boys,” Julian grumbled in yet another unsuccessful attempt to get him to stop. “Or I’m asexual.”

 

Andrew snorted. “You’re neither gay nor a weird plant. I’ve my fair share of those with your brothers, Jules.” He elbowed the confused looking 18-year-old. “And it’s time for you to do as a man does.”

 

“I could become a monk.”

 

“You’ve never gone to church in your life, son.”

 

“I…” Julian sighed deeply, still resting his elbows upon the railing. A hand came up to rack through his dishevelled hair. “I don’t know.”

 

His father clasped his shoulder. “Think about it. There’ll be a lot of women around here on Christmas night.”

 

The younger boy laughed, albeit a bit bitter. He turned in time to catch a smile on Andrew’s face. “Get one for yourself, old man.” Julian commanded.

 

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Andrew paraphrased his child twice, apparently mulling over the option. Then he shrugged. “I kinda like life with just you, kids. Women don’t always make things easier.”

 

“Says the man twice married.”

 

“I also became a widower twice,” he reminded his son kindly. But he did step back, and Julian heard his footsteps reaching the door before he paused.

 

He kept his own eyes trained on one of the blond heads running about downstairs.

 

“If you have your eye on someone, go for it,” Andrew advised. “Trust my word, Julian. It’ll all be fine.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m telling you, it’s only a matter of time now. I’ve hung mistletoe from almost every surface in this place.”

 

“And now people are making out everywhere, John. Just not Em.”

 

“I don’t understand,” he confided in his wife while kneading a new batch of sweet bread on the other side of the kitchen counter. “They’re always together. They should’ve run under a doorframe at the same time at least once by now, y’know?

 

Cordelia laughed in earnest, leaning over to sprinkle candied fruits upon the dough he was now punching. “Why are you so keen on getting them together, anyway? Let them be friends, they’re fine like that.”

 

“In case you don’t know our daughter enough,” he pointed smugly, “she’s head over heels for him. And, help me God, so is Julian. That boy’s had an eye on her almost since she was born,” John huffed. “Not that I like the idea of my baby girl all grown up, but… do you really think there’s someone better for her?” He shook his head, then laughed. “Hell, I’d adopt him in a heartbeat. Anything’s better than the specimens she’s been seeing so far.”

 

“Hey, Cameron was nice.”

 

“But Emma wasn’t in love with him, Cordy.”

 

“You got me there,” she conceded. “However, this isn’t our choice to make. Leave it to her to see if she wants something with him."

 

“ _She does._ ”

 

“John! Enough!”

 

* * *

 

Christmas Eve morning proved to worsen everybody’s mood and turn the hectic atmosphere into full fledged havoc. What began as a simple argument between newlyweds escalated quickly, following a tearful Isabelle Lightwood-Lovelace throwing anything and everything within reach to her husband--accidentally hitting Jace as well, and drawing Clary and Alec into it. Soon enough Magnus Bane was the one shouting, followed by his parents in law and the older Carstairs, and a domino effect succeeded in all teenagers being scolded by their parents while the youngest children threw tantrums at leisure. As big as the house was, it constricted most of them at the moment, and Emma took the first opportunity available to flee from it with Julian and Cristina.

 

“They’re totally impossible,” the blonde was complaining again, making use of her breath’s heat to warm her hands as the three of them walked along Times Square. “How did all their crap end up being about my navel piercing or something?”

 

Cristina giggled, Julian shaking his head by Emma’s other side. “I’m sure at one point they just started inventing reasons to be mad.”

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Dad once grounded me because Mark ran from home and he couldn’t find _him_ , so it was next best,” Jules told them. “Then when he was back, he found another to justify the dinner and breakfast he made me miss.”

 

“I’ll take that over my mother anytime,” came Cristina’s reply with a scoff. She was toying with her phone while dodging several other pedestrians, an impressive feat in Emma’s eyes given the heavy stream of people on the sidewalk. “Hasn’t your brother told you about _la chancla_? I still have nightmares about it. Probably a couple scars, too,” she added for good measure.

 

Emma knitted her brows, interest perked. “Come again? _La_ what?”

 

“It’s a flip-flop of sorts, but really, latina mothers only use it to sp… oh.” Cristina stopped on her tracks, barely getting to push the three of them against a shallow store entrance before a human stampede ran over them (though new yorkers resembled zombies better than bulls). She looked up from her phone apologetically as Emma and Julian stared at her, confused. “I’m so sorry, guys. Something came up and Kieran said he wants me there. Sorry. I’m ve-”

 

“It’s fine,” Julian smiled at the same time Emma cut her off with the usual “I don’t need to hear about your sexcapades with him and Mark again, just go-”.

 

“You’re the rudest person I’ve ever met,” Cristina chided before kissing her cheek, kissing Julian’s, and scampering off with a promise shouted over her shoulder to get them a nice present the next morning. She disappeared in the sea of people within seconds.

 

“You just need to keep that image ever present in my head, don’t you?” demanded a grimacing Julian. It was quite the picture, nose all scrunched up and a couple of snowflakes caught in his eyelashes after getting past his wool hat. Emma, wearing an identical one, doubted she looked half as adorable as he did.

 

She tugged on one end of her scarf to keep her mind off of it. “Believe it or not, not everything’s about you,” she mulled somberly. The sudden shift in her mood took her by surprise, and she quickly resumed her words to take some of the edge out of them. “Cristina’s been pestering me with every little detail of her relationship forever, too,” she lied.

 

“And so you have to make me suffer as well because that’s what a best friend’s for,” Julian finished for her, chuckling. The mirth didn’t reach his eyes, and Emma almost believed he looked as sick as she felt at his own words.

 

It made her angry.

 

They had been best friends their entire lives; there wasn’t a single milestone in her life that he hadn’t been present for, whether good or bad or outright ridiculous. He kissed her knees every time she scraped them. She was the one to hold his hand at his mom’s funeral after she lost her battle to cancer, he had braided her hair every sunday since forever, and they’d been each other’s first kiss as mere tots. They started school together and grew up together and went through a whole lot of crap together. It was only obvious that they were the best of friends.

 

But for some time now, that hadn’t been enough for Emma. And she was angry at herself for that. Ashamed, as she very well ought to feel in her own opinion.

 

She looped her arm around one of his and stepped back onto the sidewalk, this time heading to cross the street. Not another word was uttered.

 

* * *

 

"No, no. _Nena_ , I saw them before I left. They’re probably sucking face by now.”

 

“Cristina!” echoed a chorus of Blackthorns.

 

* * *

 

Emma wasn’t extremely talkative by most standards: Julian knew her silences. And this one was worrying him a little bit too much.

 

“So,” he tried after they’d been walking along Central Park’s Strawberry Fields for a good 20 minutes. “Why are we here again?”

 

She remained quiet for an instant. Then, “I couldn’t stand all those people. I miss home,” she revealed.

 

And Julian understood. She had always been kind of claustrophobic in a way, so it didn’t come as shocking new intel. Regardless, he slowed down to a stop by a bench, and when Emma turned to look at him, intrigued, he simply shoved her down onto the marble. “I’m tired,” he summed up in response, taking a seat next to her. “We’ve been walking for an hour, Emma.”

 

“I tend to forget you are an old man,” Emma joked. She pushed his shoulder with hers lightly and all awkwardness evaporated in front of Julian’s eyes as fast as it had first settled. She was smiling again, a kinder softness to her face as she swung her legs under the bench and stared at the few trees before them that still held onto their leaves dusted in white. “I like it here, though.”

 

To anyone less familiar with her it would have been hard to guess why. She loved the sand of the desert even better than the sand by the beach, thrived under the sun, adored the summer with everything it entailed. It was Emma’s element. Plus, she had also cursed the first time snow became in contact with her skin, swearing it burnt worse than anything she had ever experienced.

 

But there was beauty in the tiny tornadoes that picked up leaves and swirled them with snow, the fierceness of the wind that blew being delicate, illustrating, sculpting as it corrupted the fragility of nature’s remaining signs. Julian watched with an artist’s eye, and he was sure Emma’s inner warrior didn’t wash over that small expression of strength either.

 

And she didn’t thrive any less in this new scenery. He was constantly finding brand new shades of pink on her skin there where the cold bit her, fingers constantly aching for a brush and a wide set of paints to allow him to find the perfect hue, to portray the way her hair glowed when snow surrounded her. She smiled differently here, too, and the sun picked previously unknown kinds of gold and chocolate in her eyes. At times she looked like the perfect picture of an angel.

 

She would laugh if he ever told her that, of course.

 

So he kept it to himself, kept watching new colors pop into his field of vision as she stirred almost imperceptibly under the few rays of sunshine that dared illuminate the city.

 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

New York kept them occupied for the rest of the afternoon with hot chocolates and attractions and some last-minute presents a number of people back at the house had forgotten to buy, so they’d passed the burden onto the only two kids crazy enough to venture into the city during Christmas Eve. It wasn’t an experience Emma wanted to repeat anytime soon, but it definitely could’ve been worse. It did consume most of their day, and by the time they reached the Lightwoods’ place all lights on the upper floors were out. They thanked Maryse when she opened the door for them and promised to be quiet after finding out that all of the children were asleep, too.

 

Emma rested her weight on the kitchen counter when the task of scribbling names on the presents and setting them under the tree was done, glass of juice in her hand and exhaustion written under her eyes. There was a plate of leftover sweets by her as well--Julian told her he couldn’t believe she had agreed to miss Christmas dinner, and really, she couldn’t either. She let out a long sigh. “I’m going to sleep in so late tomorrow. Like, until 5 p.m. at least.”

 

“What about the presents?” Julian asked, taking a cookie from her plate and dunking it in cranberry sauce mostly just to bother her.

 

She stuck her tongue out at him, then shrugged and smiled nonchalantly. “I know you, Mark, Ty and your dad will love what I got you, I don’t need to be there to hear any of you scream. I probably would’ve been able to do that all the way from LA.”

 

“What’d ya…?” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but when Emma’s smile widened behind the glass she was holding, he straightened up in place. “No. _No way. You didn’t_.”

 

“I’ve my contacts,” she confirmed calmly. “Anything for my favorite history nerds. But I’ll be going with you--I’m not missing my first time seeing a Broadway show just because you bunch might cry too loudly at a dead prez rapping.”

 

“Alexander Hamilton never got the presidency and- you know what? I don’t care,” he told himself off. His smile looked as painful as it was wide but she couldn’t bring herself to be worried about it when he was so ecstatic. “I’m too happy to care. God, Emma, I love you so much.”

 

He shook his head after his exclamation, chuckling under his breath and staring at her in disbelief. But Emma felt cold all over. She offered a tight smile and put her glass down carefully. “It was money well spent,” she limited her reply. Her feet were already guiding her back towards the living room and the staircase. “I, uh, I’m gonna hit the hay now. See you tomorrow, Jules.”

 

“Wait!” He called out, flinching after realizing he might’ve been a bit too loud. He made his way around the kitchen aisle quickly, jogging up to her with the same goofy smile he’d been sporting for the past minute.

It fell as soon as he noticed the apprehension in her face, voice seeping unto a worried whisper. His hand found its way under her pale hair to cup her cheek carefully. “Hey, you okay?”

 

It was too much for Emma. She bit her lip, pushing his hand away as considerately as she could while avoiding his gaze. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Tired, that’s all.”

 

“Give me more credit,” he laughed incredulously. His hand fell limply by his side. “Em, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did I say something?”

 

 _More than just something_ , she wanted to yell at him. But how could she when he was giving her all of his genuine concern over a little thing as stupid as a grimace on her face? Julian was all kindness and love--it wasn’t his fault that Emma yearned for another kind of love when she was around him.

 

She shut her eyes and sighed before allowing herself to rest against the doorframe, only blinking up in surprise when a handful of mistletoe fell onto her chest and bounced to the floor. “What the…?”

 

“Where did all that mistletoe come from?” Julian asked, apparently as shocked as she was. Indeed, over their heads was nested what could only be a small but blossoming bush made of hand-tied bunches of mistletoe. Excessive and impractical. The surprise lasted only until realization set in him, and he noticed amidst the burning sensation in his face that Emma was blushing, too. “Don’t worry,” he smiled shyly. “You don’t have to kiss me if-”

 

“But I want to,” Emma blurted out so fast Julian almost didn’t catch it. He waited for her to clarify herself, by now sure that he was dreaming or hallucinating on powerful drugs, but she only made a sound of frustration--and leaned forward to hide her face in his chest. “Please don’t hate me, I don’t want to freak you out.”

 

Belatedly, as if commanding himself through someone else, he raised both hands and lifted her face softly with his knuckles under her chin. Flushed, and as close as she’d ever get to a pout, she had never looked more precious to him. “You’re not joking,” he stated moments later, bewildered.

 

“Why would I be joking?” Emma scoffed, offended. The fiery gleam of her eyes fixed on his was overwhelming. “It’s not like I’d get anything out of-”

 

He cut her words off by leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers.

 

* * *

 

 

And really, he realized countless minutes after his hands had learnt how the curve of her jaw felt to his touch when she kissed him, and after his mouth had overcome the shock of realizing that she tasted like chocolate and a bit of saltwater too, and his ears became addicted to the little gasp she made when he bit her lip; really, there had never been anything to lose when it came to his best friend. Because she was beaming between his arms, content but reaching back up again and again and again to press her mouth to his and steal kisses that left both of them slightly more than breathless. Her hands remained glued to his chest, apparently still needy of reassurance that yes, his heart was beating and wildly so, and yes, he was there and real. Her best friend still. Hers.

 

He had always been, really.

 

“Merry Christmas, Emma,” he laughed, nuzzling the crown of her head when a church nearby began to ring the twelve bells signaling midnight.

 

She wrinkled her nose, then raised herself on her tiptoes to peck his cheek, and his lips afterwards. She remained there for a second, smiling.

“Merry Christmas, Jules.”

 

 


End file.
